


In the Line of Duty

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, BAMF Derek Hale, Derek was a Secret Service Agent, It reads like a cheesy action movie but you guys love it don't lie, Kidnapped Stiles, M/M, President Sheriff Stilinski, Stuff happens, but now he just works as private security, stiles is the president's son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Derek Hale expects after having quit his job in the Secret Service four months back is to be awoken by a desperate call from the President of the United States -- the man whose son Derek had been charged to protect all those months ago. </p><p>Stiles Stilinski, the public's beloved First Son, has been kidnapped, and Derek may well be the only hope they have to get him back alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://missingmahealani.tumblr.com/post/94274187885/bleep0bleep-heathyr-theres-been-an-incident). Also known as 'my hand slipped'.
> 
> And, man, this fandom. It's like a black hole. I'm never going to escape now, am I?

President John Stilinski is the leader of the free world; he does not have _time_ to play a state-wide game of hide and seek with his twenty-three year old son. Stiles, however, does not seem to understand this. It seems as if not a day goes by without his lunch break – or his medical examination, or his meeting with the German Chancellor, or, on one particularly memorable occasion, his state of the union address – getting interrupted by a panicked call from the Secret Service telling him that they’ve lost his son. Again.

Invariably, Stiles resurfaces after a few hours, rambling about whatever misadventure he’s gotten up to while gone, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. He apologises to his dad for causing him a near heart attack, makes his excuse – usually some variant on, “I just needed some breathing room, Dad.” – and then makes nice to his security detail as if nothing ever happened.

It’s so far past routine now that Special Agent Greene – the poor woman whose full-time job it is to trail after Stiles – has mostly learned not to freak out when she turns around and finds that Stiles is no longer standing behind her.

In any other circumstance, John would question the credentials of every agent that’s ever been assigned to his son during his six year stint in the white house, but, well, John _knows_ his son. Despite his national reputation as America’s Sweetheart – a nickname lovingly bestowed upon him by the press during John’s first election campaign – Stiles is anything but. Sarcastic, quick-minded, and even quicker-footed – that’s the son that John unwittingly raised. John has no doubt that if he were still a sheriff – a position he abandoned long ago for politics – then Stiles would have spent high school, and probably a large portion of his time at college, gate-crashing crime scenes and getting tangled up with murder suspects.

So, naturally, when his meeting with the Japanese ambassador is disturbed by a visit from Chris Argent, the Director of the Secret Service, his first reaction is to ask, “Have you checked the residence of Scott McCall?”

Opposite John, Director Argent exhales deeply, the sound grim and somewhat unnerving. “Mr President, sir, you may want to take a seat.”

* * *

The Alpha Pack.

_The Alpha Pack._

John has seen reports on this group being passed around his office and the media alike over the past year and all of them seem to spell out the same thing: _this is a group that cannot be reasoned with._ Their targets are as varied as they are strange – a girl abducted from her dorm at MIT, a veterinarian taken from his practice in California – and they only ever appear to have one thing in common. None of them ever turn up alive.

And they have Stiles. The Alpha Pack has his _son._

John wants—he wants many things right now. He wants to know how this happened – how the Secret Service _let_ it happen. He wants to know _why,_ he wants to know _who,_ but most of all, John wants Stiles back. He wants Stiles safe.

John takes a calming breath, trying to push the instinctual panic down. “How long has he been missing?” he asks.

Chris sighs. “Five hours.”

“And we’re _certain_ it’s the Alpha Pack?” John asks.

Chris shares a charged look with Peter Hale – John’s Secretary of Homeland Security, and _damnit_ was he really the last one to know about this? – before he places a laptop on John’s desk.

“Thirty minutes ago,” Peter narrates, “we received this video via email. It seems as if it was taken and sent using your son’s phone, which was then later destroyed.”

Chris hesitates before hitting play. “As a warning now, Mr President, this video may contain some imagery that—”

“Just play it, Director,” John says, wishing that he didn’t already sound so tired.

The footage is—well, it’s pretty awful is what it is. Stiles looks how he always does under duress, like he’s barely holding it together, with a thread of unmistakeable strength underneath his terror, and John is struck for a moment by how _brave_ his son is, but when Stiles starts to talk about how _they’re going to kill me, Dad, if you don’t—_

John hits stop.

“I want your best agents on this,” he commands, because this is something he _can_ control, something he can do. “I don’t care who you have to fly in or how much it costs – the _best_ , do you understand me, Director?”

Chris and Peter share a look. It’s Chris who eventually speaks up. “Mr President, there is only one person alive who has managed a successful retrieval of a hostage taken by the Alpha Pack.”

John frowns – the reports never indicated any survivors—

As if reading his mind, Peter explains smoothly, “The incident was sealed in order to protect the hostage in question.”

“Then call this person in,” John commands. “Twist as many arms as you have to in order to do it—just, this is my _son,_ Peter.”

Peter and Chris share yet another look. Chris sighs. “Sir, that’s the problem,” he says slowly. “He quit four months ago.” A pause. “ _Because_ of your son.”

* * *

Derek Hale is awoken by the sounds of his sister screaming at him to turn his phone “the fuck off, you asswipe!” A quick glance at his bedside clock confirms what he suspected – it’s just gone eleven a.m., and Cora is fully justified in her anger.

She and Derek both work night shifts – as a bartender and private security respectively – because it’s all they’ve managed to secure since they moved to the city four months ago. Derek stumbled home at around six a.m. this morning, and Cora around an hour later, meaning that she’s only managed three hours of uninterrupted sleep, maximum. And Cora on no sleep is … it’s not a Cora that’s suitable for public consumption.

“Your fucking phone is still ringing, shitface!” comes Cora’s resoundingly _pissed off_ scream from her bedroom.

“I’m getting there!” Derek shouts back, rolling out of bed and dragging his heavy limbs across his cold bedroom floor – and really, why did he think putting _enamel_ down would be a good idea? He has to pause when he reaches his closet, because he can’t actually remember where he put his cell-phone last night and it’s not plugged in to charge.

After a mental check, he finds the offending communication device in the pocket of one of his grey wool suits – what he was wearing last night as he spent hour after hour shadowing a young starlet as she quite literally _bopped ‘til she dropped_ – and spends a few embarrassing seconds struggling to remember how to work it. He didn’t even want a smart-phone, but Stiles bought it for him and Derek—

Nope, not thinking about that. Not going there today.

Derek answers the call with a sleepy, “Hello?”

“ _Please hold for the President of the United States._ ”

It says a lot about how tired he is that he manages to time his, “Oh fuck _me,_ ” so that he says it the moment that US President John Stilinski picks up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only reason that a chapter has come to you guys (who are amazing in case you were wondering and I love you all) is because I'm taking a break from working/socialising (which: ugh, people) to catch up on some sleep. So, you can all thank the bastards who snore when I'm sharing a room with them.
> 
> (Brother dearest I am looking at you.)
> 
> But, uh, wow? I'm kind of bowled over by the response to this fic and how tolerant of my blatant weirdness in the comments section you all are. So, thanks.
> 
> Oh and the pacing/length of the chapters is just so fucked up in this fic.
> 
> Now, go enjoy some Stiles POV.

**_Six months ago_ **

If Derek believed in God, he’d think he was being tested. He’s six months into this assignment – which he’s ninety per cent sure he got due to nepotism, and Derek is looking at _you,_ Uncle Peter – and has ended up losing track of his charge, one Stiles Stilinski, over twelve times already. There’s no pattern to Stiles’ disappearances, either, no set times each week when Stiles decides to climb out of a bathroom window, or switch clothes with his best friend at the gym, or – and woe betide the day Stiles does this again – _jumping out of the car while it is moving._

Case in point: it’s one a.m. and Stiles is, once more, missing.

Well, not _missing,_ per se, but he isn’t in his bed. With anyone else, Derek would be pretty sure that they hadn’t left the Whitehouse, given the perimeter they have set up around it, but, well, this is _Stiles._

Stiles has been evading his security detail ever since his father was confirmed as the democratic candidate.

It takes Derek twenty minutes to locate Stiles this time, finding him in the kitchen, face gaunt under the bright overhead lighting. He’s curled up on the floor with a blanket wrapped around him, crowded around his laptop and a bowl of what looks like Eton mess – Derek really hopes it’s Eton mess, because he’s already come up with several alternatives and none of them are anything even approaching pleasant – balanced on his lap. At the sounds of Derek’s footfalls, Stiles looks up.

A grin fixes itself onto Stiles’ face, as if he’s _unaware_ that he’s just given his bodyguard a minor heart attack. “Derek, my man,” Stiles says easily. “What brings you here?”

Derek comes to a stop a foot away from Stiles and glowers down at him. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Stiles scrunches up his nose and shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.” It’s said casually enough that anyone else would be convinced that the first son had just had too much caffeine and leave it at that, but, well, this is Derek. And Derek knows Stiles.

“Do you…” Ah, fuck, the reason he chose his career is because he wanted to avoid these sorts of conversations. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Stiles shakes his head.

A comfortable silence settles between them, before Derek sighs. He drops down next to Stiles, gratefully accepting the patch of blanket that Stiles lays over him and refusing the offer of the dessert bowl. Stiles swivels his laptop around so that Derek can see it, revealing a grainy black and white film that’s playing with subtitles on it.

“It’s about offing your relatives,” Stiles supplies. “Very British.”

Derek isn’t going to touch that statement with a ten foot pole, so he just nods, and watches Stiles sink into a rare haze of concentration on the movie.

Sometimes it strikes Derek as strange that this is the relationship he has with Stiles. It’s equal parts evasive manoeuvres and grey-hair inducing levels of stress as it is curling up next to Stiles under a blanket. It’s just—very odd.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Stiles mutters quietly, prodding Derek in the side.

Derek does his best not to roll his eyes – he really does. “Like you can hear me,” he replies.

Stiles shoots Derek a look that says, quite clearly, _shut the fuck up,_ and then shifts his weight on the floor. “I really fucking hate this house,” he says under his breath. “There’s carpet everywhere,” he adds. “ _Everywhere._ It’s gotten to the point where I honestly wouldn’t be surprised to find carpeted bathrooms. I mean, what’s wrong with some good old laminate? Or wood? Or tile – tile’s awesome. It’s why I like the kitchen so much.” Stiles knocks on the hard tile of the floor as if to illustrate his point. “When I get my own house, I’m going to ban carpet. It’ll be wood and tiles all the way. Or enamel. I could do enamel.”

Derek shoots Stiles a quizzical look. “Enamel?”

“Yeah,” Stiles affirms. “Enamel. You know, what you get on baths and shit?”

Derek shakes his head. “Sounds expensive,” he comments.

Stiles shrugs. “I’m the first son. Worst comes to worse, I’ll just write up my memoirs and use that to finance it.”

Derek smiles.

* * *

 

**_Present day_ **

Stiles Stilinski is a melodramatic asshole pure and simple; he’s not even going to try to deny it. He takes inordinate amounts of pleasure out of overreacting to simple realisations, arms flailing as he half-fakes a freak out. Some of it at least, Stiles knows, is born out of his lifetime love affair with sarcasm, but the rest of it is pretty much all rooted in his enjoyment in making his best friend, Scott McCall, freak out over the smallest things.

Scott tends to take his cues of Stiles, and has adopted the attitude that if Stiles is worried, he needs to be worried too.

But Scott’s not here and Stiles isn’t being melodramatic when he says this: he’s going to die.

Stiles’ dad hasn’t been a cop in a long time – a _very_ long time – but the habits and reactions are supposed to stay for a lifetime. As do the habits and reactions that are gained from being a cop’s kid.

So Stiles knows – has it engrained in every fibre of his being – that he’s going to die.

It comes down to the simple facts. Right now, Stiles has absolutely no idea where he is. They took his phone, as well, so it’s not like that knowledge would help him any. He’s also bound to a freaking metal chair – like something straight out of a horror movie, or a torture chamber, which: not a fun comparison to be able to draw – and has a pretty huge bruise on his forehead from where they knocked him out.

Oh, and in case it wasn’t clear: he’s been kidnapped. _Kidnapped._

It’s like a fucking movie plot. The President’s son kidnapped by a mysterious terrorist organisation. Stiles would laugh if it weren’t so fucking terrifying. Only, in a movie, the worst that would happen to Stiles would be the loss of an ear, or a finger, whereas here: loss of _life._

The main reason, however, that Stiles is convinced he’s going to die – all that positively delightful shit aside, can be rooted back to the man and woman standing in front of him.

The man is middle-aged and probably blind, if the glasses covering his eyes are anything to go by, and introduced himself with a false flare of politeness as _Deucalion._ Stiles would probably feel some empathy towards him over their shared misfortune with shitty first names, if not for the fact that Deucalion has him tied to a _fucking chair._

Then there’s the woman. Oh, the woman. The _Stiles-really-hopes-she’s-not-fucking-Deucalion-because-that’s-a-combination-of-genetics-that-would-end-in-intensive-therapy-for-all-involved_ partner in creepy crime. She’s drop-dead – emphasis on the word _dead_ – gorgeous, but seems to have something against shoes and socks, if her bare feet are anything to go by. She snarls her name at Stiles – Kali – only dropping the hostility when Deucalion shoots her a look.

“Now, Stiles,” Deucalion says, in that smooth, British lilt that makes Stiles want to squirm. “You’re going to help us record a video for your father.”

“Well, _sure_ ,” Stiles says before he can bite his tongue. “Just let me call my agent and we can start contract negotiations.”

Kali slaps Stiles around the face for that one and that – that hurts more than it should. He tastes blood in his mouth. All in all: not one of his smarter moves.

Deucalion’s lips quirk. “You’re funnier than I expected,” he muses.

“Clearly you haven’t watched many of my interviews,” Stiles is replying again, before he can stop himself. “I’m witty as fuck.”

“I don’t doubt you are,” Deucalion murmurs, giving Kali a significant look. Kali casts her eyes at Stiles in a disdainful once over before she walks away and returns with a palm-held camcorder.

Stiles snorts. “Are we shooting a ransom vid or amateur porn?” he asks, which earns him another slap around the face. It’s starting to sting. “So what if I don’t cooperate in this ransom video?”

Kali smiles. It’s all teeth. “Then we shoot you.” Her eyes fall to Stiles’ crotch. “Somewhere non-lethal.”

Stiles decides pretty much there and then that he’ll be able to find it in him to behave for the duration of the recording. He does what they say, even starts to cry without having to be asked – fuck, he’s fucking _scared,_ okay – and tries to swallow down the lump that forms whenever he thinks of his dad watching this.

Just—fuck.

It doesn’t matter, though. Not really. It doesn’t matter whether or not his dad sends in their ransom demands, and he won’t because _the United States Government does not negotiate with terrorists._ It doesn’t matter. They’ll kill him anyway.

Because Stiles is a cop’s kid and he knows that if a kidnapper lets you see their face, they’re not going to let you go alive.

* * *

 

Derek Hale feels, not for the first time in his life, helpless. Like he’s been set adrift, with no direction, no anchor, and _he doesn’t know what to do._

The President of the United States is looking at him like he’s his only hope and Derek—Derek isn’t the hero he wants. Derek doesn’t know how to put into words his explanation, that yes, he’s faced off against the Alpha Pack before, but he doesn’t have the same advantages now that he had then, and that the Alpha Pack has grown, and that back then he was just a reckless kid with nothing to lose.

It’s in the file, though, buried under a thick layer of military jargon and official language. If you know how to read it correctly, then it’s obvious that Derek had no idea what he was doing.

But this is Stiles.

So, Derek looks into the pleading eyes of a man who has faced the world with no fear, and agrees to help.

Playing bodyguard to Emmy nominees was getting boring, anyway.


End file.
